


The Shores of Mourning

by Ellynne



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: And Lore Olympus, But not really either of those, Gen, Weirdly inspired by Descendents 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 09:20:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20525642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellynne/pseuds/Ellynne
Summary: In a different curse, baby Emma is trapped in the border between worlds till someone pulls her out.





	The Shores of Mourning

**Author's Note:**

> The Hades, Zeus, Hercules, etc. in the fifth season have nothing to do with this world. Nothing. For further details, see the note at the end.

The world was a wreck and ruin of itself. The Land of Shadows where roads twisted like the paths of memory and thought, some never the same way twice, others mercilessly never changing, now was nothing more than old caves and tunnels. The darkness of the walls was only the color of soot and stone, not patient, hungry shadows. 

The ground didn’t shift beneath his feet. Terror didn’t run at his heels. Mortal lights would have shown the way and a simple piece of chalk, marking at the branching paths, would lead the traveler home.

But, the rivers still flowed. Barely more than streams, their waters diluted and weak, but still themselves, still wardens and guards. Yet, tepid as they were, even he couldn’t cross them, not now. They trapped him in a world of the living. 

Oblivion, that was the strongest river, wrapping not just this island but the lands beyond. The color of lead and just as cold, the current almost as still as swamp water. Gray lilies dotted the surface, their scent faint but calming. Reeds bent in the still air, murmuring softly and drawing the listener close. White moths, pale as ghosts, flitted among the flowers, drinking their nectar before flying on, aimless, lost.

Mists rose from the water, searching their way through the roads and towns beyond where it would taint rain and wells, seeping through earth and air. It would brush against skin, taint each drink, and curl in each cold-damp breath.

Even he found his thoughts dimming, growing confused and far away. Life before was distant, half-forgotten. He had existed before this place, memories of power—of _glory_—even the river could not take from him. But, it was a fading dream, nothing more.

Two other rivers ran close together, Pain and Fire. 

Pain because that was what life was and so was death, the common point that bound them together. Fire because. . . .

The story was old, at the edge of his mind. Giant forms met in battle. _Titans_, he called them, terrors made flesh, devourers, destroyers. They had themselves been destroyed, bound with fire.

As now it bound him, another terror hidden in the night. He was, after all, his father’s son.

But, that was not the river that drew him today. 

Tears, this one was called, the waters of Lamentation. It was never the same twice, sometimes clear, swift and cleansing; sometimes red as blood of old wounds, full of rot and death. Shadows darted in the waters, lurking in the river grass, sometimes guarding the life that grew there, sometimes chewing it down to the root. The smell of salt tinged the air as he drew closer, and he saw the small bundle floating in the stream.

He had known it would be here when he stood (when he woke?) on the shores of Oblivion, though he could not say why or how he had known. A scrap of thought flitting away, a pale moth, confused and lost, stumbling in its flight and drifting into the dark waters below.

But, the need to be here, that had remained, even if the reason was gone, even if there had never been a reason, only wandering and whims he insisted on calling purpose. 

But, there was the bundle in the water.

There was nothing strange in that. The waters ran with memories, with things taken before their time, lost but not forgotten. He had seen these waters run red with the deaths of battles and black with the ashes of the past, choking on time’s broken shards. This small scrap was nothing next to those.

He knew that but, all the same, he stepped into the cold, biting current. 

He stood in these waters when they were a thick, gray mire and when they were warm and clear, the mists rising from them so sweet it almost hid the faint touch of bitter.

Today, they were swift and sharp. Even he could feel the icy blades, strong enough to slice a mortal to shreds. 

He ignored it along with the harsh tang of salt in the air, reaching for the bundle. It was a wad of cloth and knitting. A mortal would have wondered why the water hadn’t already seeped in, dragging it down into the dark.

He could feel the strength that had gone into its making. Every stitch of knitting had been tied with a fierce, burning protectiveness. The cloth was stained with red, a father’s blood, and with a mother’s sweat and tears. In this place, against the forces that swirled around, it had power to protect, to bear up.

But, only for a time. The river would have claimed it in the end. Pushing back the folds of the blanket, he saw the damage that had already been done. The small form within was too still and pale, ice cold to his touch.

He hesitated. He knew that losing her meant . . . _losing._ The way out. The way back. His memories were torn, fragmented, but he remembered that much.

She had to live. That meant he had to do whatever it took to save her.

With a quick flash of teeth, he bit his finger. Blood welled up (no, not blood, but never mind. For now, call it blood). He pressed a drop to the child’s lips.

A moment passed. Two. It didn’t matter. He could feel the small spark that separated the living from the dead. She gasped, a flush coming into her cheeks as she let out a piercing cry.

Understandable. They were all feeling that way today.

“It’s all right,” he told her, holding her close as he walked towards shore. There was a name, embroidered in purple silk, along the edge: _Emma. _

He didn’t say it, not yet. It wasn’t the time or place.

_Soon enough, _he thought. 

“You’re mine,” he told her. “For now.” He gave her a crooked grin. “A rotten thing to do to you, especially on your first day. But, the river can’t kill you now. It can hurt you if you go swimming in it, and I’ll tell you I told you so. But, you’ll live.

“You need a name, another name. Malinoë. We can call you Mal. Or Mali. What do you think?” The baby cried louder. “Oh, don’t complain. You’re keeping the old one. But, we won’t say it. Not till the time is right. Do you understand? 

“Don’t worry. I don’t use my name either, not here. They call me other things. Aidoneus. And Ploutus. That means wealth, which sounds foolish enough. You can call me Gold, if you want to. Out there, the ones who are afraid of me know me as Hades. But, I don’t think you’ll ever be afraid of me, will you? Come on,” he said, stepping onto the river bank. “I have a mother waiting for you.”

**Author's Note:**

> When the first Descendants movie aired, it had a few, more serious ideas hiding in the plot that I couldn't help thinking about. I also wondered what would have happened if Auradon had been the world created by the curse instead of Storybrooke, with some of the villains on the Island of the Lost being the heroes from the Enchanted Forest and some of the heroes in Auradon being the Enchanted Forest's villains. Then, I binge-read Lore Olympus with its very different Hades, and this happened. 
> 
> I was down to about the second to last paragraph when I realized this world's Hades is really Rumplestiltskin.


End file.
